But I was afraid to ask if Aimee was okay. Asking would only draw Lena’s attention to my interest, make her wonder how much I cared, maybe piss her off. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want anyone to be murdered, that somewhere a part of me was still kneeling by the security guard as he lay bleeding, maybe dead. She would misread my interest in Aimee and react to it, and the last thing I wanted to do was give Lena something to push against. She was the equal and opposite force, the inevitable reaction. That was how we’d first become friends, wasn’t it? I’d hurled a mug and then she’d matched it, shattering another against the wall. But this time, it wouldn’t be an inanimate object that she broke.

“Come find me,” I called, my voice stronger.

“I don’t think you want to see what I have with me.” Horrible mirth ran like a dreg-filled current through her voice.

“Forget about Aimee. Let’s talk, just the two of us.” With effort, I kept my tone light. At any moment, Lena might decide the fun was over and she could kill Aimee. I knew she could.

“We are talking. And Aimee’s fine. She’s just listening now. Aren’t you, bitch?” she hissed.

There was a thud, like a piece of furniture being knocked over. Aimee must be struggling, but now I had a better bead on her location. Right next to me, one gallery over. I put on a burst of speed, running lightly, silently I hoped, past the fragile statues and down to the end of the gallery, the security guard’s flashlight in my hand, still turned off so it wouldn’t give me away.

I rounded the corner into the central gallery, the one that had featured in so many of my nightmares. Winged Victory was still in the center, a form as dark as if all the shadows had fused into the shape of a looming angel.

And just beyond it, Lena was waiting for me, silhouetted against the feeble light from the front of the museum. With her preternatural instincts, she’d heard me, of course she had. Actually, thanks to the security cameras in my house, she’d always known where I was, every second of the last year. There was no point in pretending to hide.

I switched on the flashlight.

She was smiling, the same way she had when meeting me for a walk or handing me a margarita poolside. Even with her newly dyed hair, she looked like the same woman who’d sat next to me at Bluebonnet meetings and picked me up for impromptu lunches out and spent so many hours talking. She looked delighted to see me.

But she wasn’t alone.